


Blood Tastes Alright, But I Don't Like the Smell

by Largishcat



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Forced Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:05:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Largishcat/pseuds/Largishcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time, Will thinks one of his Tributes might make it all the way to the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by all the other great Hunger Games AUs. They are better than mine.
> 
> Also because I realized that Will as a Victor would basically be a cuter, nicer, sadder version of Haymitch.

The sound Garret Jacob Hobbs makes when his daughter is called is like that of a wounded animal. Beside him, his wife remains silent, but she seems to fade, like something vital has been sucked out of her. Abigail, the daughter, is white as a sheet, wringing her hands, but not moving, not stepping forward, even though the announcer with the flaming red hair is beckoning her to the stage. For a moment, it looks as if the Peacekeepers will have to drag her, but she jolts into movement. Walking forward quickly and not looking back.

Behind her, her father sinks to the ground, his head in his hands.

Abigail stands on the stage and barely hears as the male tribute's name is called. The faces of the people she grew up with, the people she has known all her life, stare up at her, and she gazes blankly back at them as if they were strangers. 

Her father's keening can be heard over the forced applause.

"Well, that's that," the announcer says simply. "Congratulations to this year's tributes. And may the odds be ever in your favor." She says this with just the tiniest hint of sarcasm, the announcer does, as if she is fully aware of the deep irony of the Games' motto. It's only there for those who listen; not enough to rouse suspicion in those used to hearing the standard remarks repeated over and over again every year without even the slightest hint of irony. Abigail hopes her father picks up on it. She's not sure how much comfort it would bring him, to know even this woman from the Capitol, with her fire-red hair and her blood-red coat, thinks these pleasantries farcical, but she hopes he might find some vindication, if nothing else.

"It's ridiculous," he used to say, loudly over the dinner table to his wife, or hushed, in the woods, tracking deer and rabbits and squirrels with Abigail, "they take our children and expect us to smile and clap and act like it's some great honor." 

He'd tug Abigail in close, then, press a kiss to her forehead, crisp leaves crunching underneath their feet. "They won't take you," he'd whisper into her hair, "only one more year until you're too old. They won't take you."

But they have taken her, and Abigail breathes slowly in and out like she's deep in the forest, trying not to spook a deer. She doesn't look to where her parents are huddled, together on the ground.

\------

The headache behind Will's eyes is spreading outward, through his entire head. He wishes desperately for the pills in his pocket, but he can't take them with this many Peacekeepers around; someone might notice that his painkillers are hospital grade. They mostly turn a blind eye to the Victors' self-medication, but they might want to know where he got them from.

He studies the two children up on that high, high stage. The Hobbs girl is almost too old to be a Tribute; one more year and she would have been done with the Reaping for good. But good luck doesn't happen to people in District 12, and so there she is. At least she isn't crying. No, instead she stares straight ahead, not even looking as her fellow tribute is called up. She's not looking at him either, so Will studies her face. She looks like she's in shock, which is normal, but there's something in the slight downturn in the corners of her mouth, the alert flicker of her eyes, that looks like something else altogether.

The boy is hunched in on himself, like he's trying to disappear into his own gangly limbs. He looks like a prey animal. Will hopes he dies quick.

What Will really wants right now is couple of strong drinks, something to help him sleep, to be home with his dogs, and to not have to spend the next two month worrying about looking presentable for the cameras while trying to beat impossible odds and keep one of his kids alive this time.

Freddie Lounds' voice grates across his skull as she urges the people to cheer for their dead children, and he suppresses a grimace. He can hear the girl's father's choked sobbing even over Freddie's announcements. Will is reminded of last winter, when he found a dog caught in a hunter's trap, in the woods behind Victor's Village. It had been too late for the dog, and the animal had known it. Its whines had had the same hollowness as Hobbs's crying.

Every year, Will tries as hard as he can to keep his kids alive, and every year he watches them die on screen, feeling every second of their pain, their panic, as if it's his own. Maybe it is. Reality gets fuzzy sometimes. 

Will sighs, and heads to the station to meet his Tributes.

The train is as sterilely luxurious as it ever is. Will knows every inch of it from the nights he stays up pacing up and down the corridors, which is most nights. He rarely sleeps when the Games are going on. He really hates this train.

The girl and the boy are led in by Freddie; Will doesn't bother getting up. They bring a cloud of anxiety in with them, and Will's hands start to sweat in sympathy.

"Here they are," Freddie tells him, giving him a look, perhaps trying to tell if he's drunk yet or just feeling choleric. "This is Abigail Hobbs, and this is--"

"Rabbit," the boy interrupts. "I’m called Rabbit."

Abigail's eyes meet Will's for a second, looks away quickly but a flash of understanding passes between them. Rabbit is no kind of name to bring into the Games.

"Well, Rabbit, Abigail, I'll leave you in Mr. Graham's capable hands. I have to speak with the conductor." Freddie says. She smiles, excruciatingly politely, at Will, who glares sullenly back at her.

"In a hurry to leave, Freddie?" He can't stop himself from saying, snidely.

"Oh, I trust you to do your job without me," she says simply. Will loathes her from the very depths of his being, but she's not as bad as most people from the Capitol, and years of working together have forced them into a hostile kind of camaraderie. "I'll see you both at dinner," she tells the Tributes, and disappears in a rustle of red fabric.

The boy, Rabbit Will reminds himself, is curled in on himself again, trying to disappear into one of the overstuffed chairs. Abigail Hobbs is looking at him intently, like she's trying to decide something. She crosses the room and seats herself directly across from him. She's twisting her hands again, but she looks determined.

"I don't want to die," she tells him bluntly, her voice cracks a little, but her gaze is steady. Will concentrates on her right eyebrow.

"No," he says slowly, "most people don't."

"You won your Games, how did you do it?"

Will had hid in trees mostly, fished in the streams, watched the other Tributes closely, learned what made them afraid. 

"I mean," Abigail corrects herself, lacing and unlacing her fingers, "I know how you did it; I saw your Games. But I can't get into people's heads like you. How did--"

"How did I stay alive," Will finishes for her. She nods. "Mostly I tried to keep under the radar, tried not to look like a threat." 

"Do you think I could do that?"

"Maybe," Will says, scrubbing a hand over his face. Abigail has the right kind of face for guilelessness, and she is obviously scared, but there's a confidence in the way she walks that's hard to ignore. Or maybe confidence isn't the right word. Her nervousness is pervasive enough that just being near her is making him anxious, but there's something about her body language that suggests that when it comes down to it, she knows how to use a weapon. 

"You hunt," he says, it isn't a question.

"Yeah, with my dad," Abigail admits. "How did you know?"

He waves a hand at her awkwardly, trying to encompass her entire body, the fact that while her hands are knotted in her lap, both her feet are planted firmly on the floor. "It's the way you walk."

"Really," she says a little doubtfully. Then she gives him a sly smile. "Are you sure you didn't buy some of my squirrels some time? It's not really a secret that me and my dad hunt."

Will smiles back at her, almost involuntarily. "I'd be careful who I say that to. You're going to be constantly watched from now on."

"I could get my dad in trouble," Abigail clarifies and Will nods. She's quiet for a while before speaking again. Will notices that the boy has begun to inch his way over to where they're sitting. Abigail notices too, and shoots Rabbit an irritated look. 

"What about the Careers?" Abigail asks, focusing back on Will. "How do you compete with them? I can handle a knife or a gun, but I don't have training."

"You'll get a bit of training once we get we get to the Capitol. You both will," he says, pointedly including Rabbit in the conversation. Abigail looks like she's just barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes, but it's too early for Will to pick sides. It's obvious which one of them stands a chance, and which one doesn't, but he's going to help both of them as much as he can. It's the least he can do. "Combat training isn't everything, though," he says, realizing how foolish this sounds as he says it. He rushes on before Abigail can scoff. "The Arena isn't just on big, drawn-out gladiator brawl, you need to survive the downtime too. Sometimes the only difference between being alive or dead is knowing which mushroom to eat, or how to navigate with the stars, or even something as simple as boiling your water."

They're nodding now, and Abigail looks like she's considering something.

"Do you think one of us has a chance?" Rabbit bursts out, and immediately looks embarrassed.

"You can never really tell until you get into the Arena. And I've only just met you," Will says carefully.

"Which means no," Rabbit says, sneering. "If you think we're going to die, I wish you'd just say so."

"Shut up, Rabbit," Abigail snaps. "He's here to help us. Just because you don't have a chance in hell doesn't mean you should take it out on him."

Rabbit's jaw clicks shut, and he stares angrily at them both for a moment before storming out of the compartment, his fist clenched at his sides. Abigail and Will watch him go. Will winces when he slams the door.

"You should be nicer to him," Will tells her quietly, after a moment.

"Why?" Abigail asks, crossing her arms, "I'm just going to have to kill him."

"Hopefully," Will tells her, "someone else will do that for you. Tributes who kill their District partners don't usually do very well."

"You did," Abigail points out.

"Yeah, well," Will says, reaching out to grab a flask of brandy off the table, "I don't think you want to end up like me."

\----

Hannibal Lecter's Games are widely, although not officially, considered historic. And, at the time, had been considered a complete disaster.

That year’s Arena had been a vast, snowy wasteland, with nothing but the occasional ice cave or low rock to break up the endless, perfectly white landscape. There was a kind of dry lichen that grew on exposed rocks that could be used to start a fire, but it was poisonous if ingested. There were no animals, not even a snowshoe hare. The Cornucopia was full of winter weather gear and fire-starting equipment, pots to melt snow in, but no food. In short, there was absolutely nothing to eat. 

Tributes were completely at the mercy of their audience. If they didn't have sponsors, they either starved or they froze.

Hannibal had been a Career from District 1, and so did have sponsors. He had been a favorite to win since the instant he stepped out on stage, smiling pleasantly, and charming everyone. The boy with the striking face, and the refined but infectious sense of humor.

Still, no amount of training can prepare you for five weeks in sub-zero weather, with nothing but a backpack and an ice cave to protect you from the cold. And some bread and hot soup every couple of days isn't enough when your body is burning every calorie it can get just to keep warm.

The 43rd Hunger Games are considered historic because they forced the Capitol to decide where they draw the line when it comes to entertainment. Obviously, it isn't at forcing desperate children to kill each other for sport. This is an issue widely discussed in Capitol academic circles, although quietly, and usually after a few drinks. 

The young Hannibal, sixteen at the time of his Games, had started off teamed up with the rest of the Careers. They had tried to make camp by the Cornucopia, but it was specifically designed not to offer much shelter from the biting winds, which sometimes blew hard enough to strip off skin. The female Tribute from Hannibal's district had died that way, and they were all forced to take shelter in a cave.

For three weeks they managed to survive on sponsors' gifts, but eventually the money ran out, and all they had left to eat was snow. 

There were no mutts in the Arena. The Tributes were grateful for this at first, no muttations meant one less thing to be afraid of, but as the weeks wore on, they prayed for some kind of monster to rise from the snow and attack them. A slain mutt could be food, if you were desperate. And they were desperate.

When the female victor from 6 wandered into their cave, everyone saw just how desperate.

The Gamemakers had honestly not planned for it. They had figured this year's Games would be quick, with the Tributes dying off from the cold and each other within one week, maybe two. They hadn't planned on them surviving long enough for snow-madness to set in. Which is what they call it, when they go over the old reels, “snow-madness”, as if it was just the cold that drove them to such things.

They had used the snow-melting pots to boil the girl's flesh, and the ratings had plummeted. Then, slowly at first but then faster, they had climbed back up, and then higher, and higher. Morbid fascination and a sickly kind of glee took hold of the Capitol, while in the back of the ice cave, a blank-faced Hannibal sipped broth made from human bone.

The Careers began to turn on each other after that, until Hannibal quietly and calmly slit all their throats one night. He buried the bodies in snow to keep them fresh, and waited for the other Tributes to die.

It was a relatively quiet Games, but remains one of the most viewed. Footage of Hannibal, watching the snow whip past the mouth of his cave, while a pot of meat bubbles by his boots, is always featured in the highlights reels.

In the Capitol, morgues started being discreetly asked if they had meat to spare, and then less discreetly as Capitol personalities took to the airwaves, declaring that there was no more such a thing as a taboo. And why should there be? Why let antiquated moral absolutist ideas from even earlier than the Dark Days ruin their modern fun? Surely they had evolved past all that.

And on other, less watched, talk shows, drably (by Capitol standards) dressed scholars, academics, and a few philanthropists nervously suggested that, perhaps, this whole Hunger Games thing had gone too far; and surely the rebels had learned their lesson by now? Almost fifty years and hardly a peep out of them. Perhaps it's time to put the Games to rest. They were, for the most part, loudly ignored. A couple disappeared. One was invited to Angela Komeda's After Games Bash, got incredibly drunk, tried a variety of the "delicacies" she had pulled a great many strings to procure, and declared himself converted.

It never became a widespread trend, reserved for only the most daring. But every fashionable Capitol citizen wanted to be seen as daring, so it never completely died out either. 

An emaciated and slightly feral Hannibal was welcomed back to the Capitol with open arms. He didn't speak for the entire time he was in recovery.

He recovered his voice and his charm in time for his post-Games, where he was as self-assured as he was before his time in the Arena. He flirted with the audience, flattered and delighted them with his understated wit. He told his interviewer that while the flavor was not bad, he believed that it could be greatly improved with some garlic, lemon, and rosemary. The audience's startled laughter sounded like they had all been collectively stabbed in the chest.

He was affectionately nicknamed "Hannibal the Cannibal". No one was entirely sure what to do with him. 

Back in his District, people avoided him like he carried the blue pox. He found this preferable to the Capitol's nauseous fascination. Even his aunt and uncle were a little wary of him now, but he had all the companionship he needed in his sister.

Mischa had practically knocked him over when he got off the train, and had refused to let go of his hand until they were safe in their new house. She refused to let him out of her sight for even an instant, as if afraid that the Capitol would come and steal him away again.

They had always been close, but for the few precious months they had before Hannibal's victory tour, they might as well have been conjoined twins. They spent long summer days wandering around the Victor's Village, eating ice cream, swapping books. Mischa sat by Hannibal and held his hand when his eyes blanked and he went quiet, and Hannibal showered her ridiculously expensive gifts, clothes, and books, and little mechanical knick knacks that were utterly useless as anything but paperweights. He helped her dismantle the little mechanical knick knacks, and make them into traps that she used to catch pigeons. They always let the pigeons go.

Mischa sighed sometimes, and told Hannibal she wished she had been born in 3 so she could invent things instead of train to become a perfumer. And that she didn't even like perfume that much, the smell hurt her nose, and most people wore far too much of it really couldn't they smell themselves? Hannibal had laughed and agreed, and the days had slipped by.

Looking back, Hannibal knows that he should have seen it coming. Historical Games are always followed by tragedy for the Victors. There are no official rules for the Games, but there are unspoken ones. Or really, just one unspoken but strictly enforced rule: don't rock the boat. People, Capitol citizens, had actually questioned the necessity of the Games, and it was Hannibal's fault.

The President himself brought Hannibal the news. His family had meant to surprise him with a visit in District 3, he was told, that they had been given special permission because the Capitol had been so charmed by little Mischa. That there had been a horrible accident, and a pack of experimental mutts had escaped from a facility and his family had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. His aunt and uncle had been mauled to death. His sister, the President had told him with the utmost solemnity, had been eaten.

Hannibal had bitten through his own cheek in order not to scream. He had thanked the President for coming all this way to tell him personally, it was so considerate and kind. And when he smiled, there was blood on his teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

Abigail is determined to seem unimpressed by the Capitol. She sighs pointedly at the brightly colored buildings. She gives the cheering Capitol crowds a look that aims for imperious, but falls just short. Will has seen better performances, but he's seen worse ones too, so he doesn't comment. 

Rabbit looks around with wide eyes, and waves shyly at the crowds. He gets a few whoops and shouted greetings for that, and Abigail glares at the back of his head.

"They'll cheer even louder when he dies," she mutters under her breath. Will sends her a chiding look.

"You need to present a united front," he whispers. "That's what they," a gesture at the crush of people outside the train, "want right now. A show of solidarity. They see you hissing and snapping at each other like feral cats, you risk your sponsors."

Beneath their feet, the train slows to a stop.

"He's right, you know," comes Freddie's calm voice from beside them. Abigail jolts. Will snorts through his nose, but doesn't comment on Freddie's casual sidestep into their conversation. "They like it when District partners stick together, even more when they act like friends—it heightens the drama. You'll get more sponsors that way."

Abigail bites her lip, considering this, but she nods.

"Good." Freddie's bright red curls bounce as she spins towards the train exit, catching both Abigail and Rabbit by the elbows and hustling them along in her wake. They both tower over her, and Will, trailing behind them, can't help but be amused. His good humor doesn't last for long, though. As they approach the exit, the chattering, humming buzz of the waiting crowds gets louder. If Will closed his eyes, he could almost mistake them for a nest of excited tracker jackers. He keeps his eyes wide open.

"Smile," Freddie reminds them, and leads them outside.

—--

The kids shrink into each other as a wave of sound washes over them. Out of the corner of her eye, Freddie sees Abigail make a jerky grab for the boy’s hand. That’s good, the girl can take advice at least.

Freddie grins, showing off her teeth to the crowds—she keeps them very white—nods and waves at a few faces she recognizes, and steals surreptitious glances back at her party, making sure the Tributes haven’t gotten pulled into the crowds. That had happened once, not to any of her kids, but to the the Tributes from 6, four or five Game cycles ago. Someone from the crowd had grabbed the female Tribute’s arm, pulling her into the throng, and the boy had waded in after her. They’d both been stripped to the waist and missing chunks of hair by the time security had gotten to them; bruised and scratched from greedy, gilded hands, eager for a souvenir. Freddie can’t remember what happened to them after that, but she can’t imagine they did very well in the Arena.

The towers of the training center loom up before them and Freddie picks up her pace, cheerily offering little “excuse us”s and “would love to talk, but must be going”s to the people who try to pull her into conversation. Her friends won’t be insulted f she doesn’t stop and chat, she’s known for being very professional, in her own way. 

Freddie lets her camera smile slowly fade as they finally make it into the relatively quiet of the training center. She glances over her shoulder to make sure the rest of her party has made it in, and sure enough there's the two kids, looking overwhelmed, and Will looking like he wants nothing more than a bottle of liquor and a place to hide. Luckily, none of them have anything official to do tomorrow until noon. Unfortunately for Will, the duties of a Mentor begin the second a Tribute is called and don't end until that Tribute is either a Victor or a corpse.

"We're on the twelfth floor," she tells them. "The view is spectacular, especially from the roof. You can see the entire Capitol."

Neither of the kids responds, but Freddie can see Abigail carefully filing this information away. She is really going to have to work on hiding her intelligence better if she wants to paint herself as nonthreatening. Freddie makes a mental note to talk to Will about it.

Rabbit visibly relaxes when they make it up to their apartments, sinking into one of the overstuffed couches with a sigh relief. Abigail remains standing; she appears to be taking her queues from Will, who still looks tense. She could use a rest herself, Freddie thinks, have to debrief the kids first though. Luckily, none of them have anything scheduled until late afternoon the next day, so Abigail and Rabbit will have a little time to get their bearings. Will, though—well, a Mentor’s job begins the second a Tribute is called, and doesn’t end until the they’re either a Victor or a corpse.

No rest there.

“Your rooms are this way,” Freddie says, beckoning. “You two can clean up a bit before dinner.”

—-- 

Lamplight glitters off of the gold thread in the tablecloth, and Will scrapes his thumbnail on it idly, nursing a bottle of white liquor. He barely glances up as Freddie moves through his peripheral vision, a swirl of red and cream.

“Are you going to be ready to work tomorrow?” Freddie says. She says this simply and without inflection, but to Will, it still feels like an accusation.

Will chokes down his angry response. “I’ll be fine.”

“We should outline our game plan tonight. I’m sure you must have ideas.” _You must know those kids inside out by now,_ she doesn’t say.

“Where’s Beverly, and the makeup crew?” he asks, putting off the inevitable discussion just a bit longer.

“They got held up,” Freddie tells him, her skirts making an alarming crackling sound as she takes the chair across from him. “Apparently, the cloth district was gridlocked all afternoon. They thought it would be better to just get here early in the morning.”

“Uh-huh,” Will says, distracted.

“Will,” Freddie says sharply, trying to get his attention, “you think we have a chance this year, I can see it. Tell me.”

Will shudders all over, and when he speaks, it’s more to the tablecloth than to Freddie. “Abigail,” he mutters, “she’s smart and it shows, but what’s more, she knows how to kill. Her-r father—” Will stumbles, pieces of information trying to click together, but not quite managing to form a full picture—“She learned from watching her father. They hunt together.”

“It’s a little different, hunting deer, or squirrels, than fighting other Tributes,” Freddie says doubtfully. 

Will shrugs. “She’s hiding something.”

“Well, of course she is.”

“Something _else_.”

“Mmm,” Freddie hums. “You think she’ll be valuable.” She taps her long nails on the table and studies Will; Will avoids her gaze.

“If she survives? Yes. Like I said, she’s smart.”

"Well, if that's the case, then we should work harder on getting allies and sponsors this year," Freddie says.

" _Don't_ patronize me," Will snaps, "I know how the game works."

"I know you do, Will," Freddie says soothingly, or perhaps sarcastically, or perhaps both, "but you need to play it. If there's even an iota of a chance that one of our Tributes could win, or even come close, we need to do everything in our power to magnify that chance."

"Yeah," Will sighs, "we do. I'll make the rounds."

"Talk to Hannibal too, please. He's very well connected, and he likes you."

" _Fine_." Will pinches the bridge of his nose. For the most part, he avoids his fellow Victors, even more than he avoids everyone else. It's not that he doesn't like them--they're good people, for the most part, as much as murderers can be. He knows they would be his friends if he let them, they are already, to a some degree, and it's not the conversation he objects to. It's the silences that are unbearable, and the silences always come. You can't put that much guilt and trauma in one room without it filling up the air, saturating it until Will _can't fucking breath_.

There hasn't been a Victor from 12 in twenty years.

For the first time, in a long time, Will thinks one of his kids might make it all the way to the end.

\---

The hollows behind Angela Komeda's collar bones are so deep that Hannibal thinks that if he hooked his thumbs behind them, he might be able to pull her clavicles straight out of her chest. He imagines her shoulders collapsing in on themselves, lungs being crushed, breastbone bending and finally snapping, and accepts a flute of champagne from a passing Avox. The wine is dyed red; Hannibal assumes it was meant to be the color of blood, but the naturally yellow tint of the wine makes it more of a deep orange. Still, the effect is not wholly unpleasant, if a bit garish. Everything is red tonight in Komeda's towering ballroom, in honor of the upcoming Games.

"Here, Faustina, you've met Hannibal, haven't you?" Komeda says, beckoning over a young women with lavender floral patterns curling over her dark skin. 

Angela had been barely twenty-five when Hannibal had first met her, still reeling from his Games. He'd found out, later, that she had been his most generous sponsor. Already an established socialite, she'd graciously offered to help the young Hannibal navigate the choppy waters of the Capitol social scene.

Even back then she'd been cannier, and richer, than most of her simpering hangers on--she could carry on a conversation about something other than fashion or the weather, and she had an extensive library, which she was more than happy share with him. She'd taken him to the Royal Panem Ballet. She'd cashed in a lifetime's worth of favors to fuck him before he left on his tour. And just before he boarded the train back to District 1 she kissed him on the cheek, and told him, cryptically, to make the most of this time with his family.

They are what passes for friends, by Capitol standards.

"I'm such a big fan," says the girl with the lavender designs curling over her cheekbones, and Hannibal smiles at her.

"It is always a pleasure to meet an admirer."

They make small talk, and Hannibal dutifully lets it slip that Mrs. Komeda is writing his biography, pausing to let Komeda slap him playfully on the arm for ruining the surprise, and earnestly tell Faustina that it's all very hush-hush for now, so she mustn't tell anybody about it yet. This is the fifth such person they've put on this carefully planned charade for tonight. Faustina excuses herself soon afterwards.

"There," Komeda says in satisfaction, as Faustina totters off on her eight inch heels. "It'll be all over the Capitol by two am."

"Indeed," Hannibal agrees, amused. He offers her his arm, and they head towards one of the smaller balconies.

"So, Hannibal," she says slyly, quirking a perfectly drawn eyebrow at him, "what can you tell me about this year's batch of Tributes?"

"Nothing, Angela," he says, mock-scoldingly, "You know I cannot reveal anything about the Tributes until they are properly introduced to the Capitol."

"Oh, but I get such a thrill discovering something before everyone else does." Komeda gives him an exaggerated pout. "Come now, Hannibal, a hint."

"Very well." He holds aside a heavy velvet curtain. A soft night breeze ruffles both their hair as they step outside. The balcony beyond has an excellent view of the sprawling, moonlit garden. Off to one side, the skeletal sketch of a hedge maze has been constructed, wooden stakes and string outlining complex, angular shapes.

"Mazes will be in fashion this year, if I know my trends," Komeda says, noticing the direction of Hannibal's gaze.

Hannibal nods, considering what tidbits of information are safe to give her. He settles on something small but substantial. "The male Tribute from my District may be of interest. He is a luthier."

"Well, that should be interesting," Komeda says, adjusting her daringly cut bodice where it rides low. "A new perspective. Most of your Tributes are jewelers or perfumers, yes?"

"Correct."

"Hmm," Komeda hums. "Thank you, Hannibal. Come say goodbye before you leave." And with that, she leaves Hannibal alone on the balcony, with the bare bones of the maze, and his thoughts, to keep him company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I swear the exciting stuff is going to start happening next chapter


End file.
